


His Sons' World

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV John Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-18
Updated: 2006-06-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s a bizarre wish, certainly. His sons’ world is the same as his own — spirits and demons and revenge, always revenge, pushing him harder every day. His sons live in his world, and not the other way around.





	His Sons' World

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I watched S1 of Supernatural and wrote a bunch of fic. Then I wandered away for ten years. Now I'm reposting it I guess.
> 
> Companion to The Difference That Divides Us. Regarding the underage warning: Sam is 17.

Sometimes, John wishes he could live in his sons’ world. 

It’s a bizarre wish, certainly. His sons’ world is the same as his own — spirits and demons and revenge, always revenge, pushing him harder every day. His sons live in his world, and not the other way around — they train and they fight and obey his commands and most of all keep safe. Sometimes he remembers that he forced them into this, that without his fanaticism, Dean would probably some hot-shot football player already, vied over by all the biggest colleges, riding scholarships all the way — but Dean gave up playing football years ago, after he missed tryouts to help Dad out on a poltergeist in ninth grade. And Sam, Sam would be — Sam would be what he already is, really, except that he wouldn’t be squeezing homework in around hunts, he wouldn’t be missing a week of AP Exams, in the hospital with a hell of a mauling from one particularly tough werewolf, and never getting the chance to make them up, because as soon as he could walk, the three of them were out of that town like a shot. Awkward questions from the locals and all — can’t afford to stick around. Sam takes his textbooks with him, insists that he’ll study and take the exams next year, wherever they happen to be then.

Sam’s more or less better now, only a slight limp remaining, and it’s been three weeks. Dean’s at his side constantly, making fun, challenging, forcing Sam to recover whether he likes it or not, but always there to catch him if he stumbles. Sam should know to catch himself, John thinks, but if there’s one thing he’s never been able to take away from his sons, it’s each other. After all, he’s already taken away their father.

Right now, the two of them are just back from a run to the convenience store. John watches them get out of the Impala — Sam takes two bags and Dean only one, but John knows as well as anyone that when they’re heavy, it’s easier to walk with two. Then they’re inside the building and John can’t see them anymore, only waits, counting the steps it should take them to get to their apartment out of habit — always pays to know everything you can about the place you’re living. The boys take longer than they should, and he’s about to go to the door when it opens and they come in, Dean first, then Sam behind him, picking his bags up off the floor, a little flushed. A fight, probably, just a small one. John knows them well enough.

Thing about those boys, they don’t realize how lucky they are. Just to be able to fight like that — a momentary confrontation, some hot-tempered complaint from Sam, a few choice words from Dean, and they’re done. That’s all. But there’s never a split. They always have each other to push against, they have each other to fall back on, they have each other, brothers, peers. What John wouldn’t give to have someone like that again — someone like Mary, maybe. Someone he knows as well as he knows himself. He has colleagues occasionally, but he usually manages to drive them off after a week or two of his company. Only his boys can survive more than that. Sometimes he thinks that they can only handle that because they’ve got each other. Sam would certainly have killed him long ago if not for Dean’s peacemaking, and the only real reason why Dean’s never been as bad as Sam is _because_ of Sam, because he has to be the older brother, the responsible one, the loyal one. If Sam were gone, John would probably be sending Dean off on his own by now. It’d be better for them both.

He doesn’t send his two boys off on hunts together, though. He’s still enough their father to avoid doing that.

It’s a quiet evening. Dean prepares dinner while Sam works away at some great, classic novel — not that he knows whether it’ll be on the curriculum for whatever place they’re going to be this year, he remarks acidly, but he might as well get a head start in case — and John pokes around the web, looking for a job they might want to take. There’s little chatter, but a strange sort of tension fills the air. It feels different from Sam and Dean’s usual fights. John can’t help but feel that they’re somehow talking, and he can’t hear a word.

He turns in early, but can’t sleep. Instead, he lies awake, listening to the boys finish up in the kitchen and head for their own room—they know the value of a good night’s sleep. With a life like theirs, they have to. 

Half an hour passes. Thoroughly sick of himself, John gets out of bed, padding softly into the now dark kitchen. He fills a glass with water, drains it, and refills it to take back to bed. 

He’s stopped outside the door of the boys’ room by the sound of Sam’s voice. “Oh, fuck, _Dean_ —” 

Then his eldest’s whisper, quiet but somehow confident. “Quiet down, Sammy. Dad’ll hear you.”

“I can’t _help_ it,” moans Sam, more quietly. “Not when you — _Dean_ —” 

Soft laughter. “What?”

“You — just go fuck yourself or something.” John doesn’t like the emphasis on _yourself_.

This time, Dean’s whisper is so quiet he can barely hear it. “I’d rather be fucking you.”

It’s enough, it’s too much, it’s making him dizzy, clutching the doorframe like it’s all that’s keeping him standing, and maybe it is. Some water slops over his shirt—his hand is shaking hard enough to make it spill. He stumbles blindly back to his own room, spilling more water on the way, and barely sets his glass down before falling onto the comforting solidity of his bed. His face is actually wet with tears, he realizes, because he cannot _comprehend_ this, just can’t understand why his sons, and they’re _brothers_ , could want something like that. He knows better than anyone that they’ve had a messed up childhood, a messed up life, but _this_ —

_Someone like Mary, John. Someone like Mary._

And it’s only now that he really realizes that his sons’ world has never been his and never will be, no matter how hard he tries.


End file.
